THE BIRDS ARE on the move. These days, they are the first sound we hear upon awakening. By the lake they’re flocked around the bushes and the saplings. There are dozens of species, and if you cast a keen eye you can see them flit and dart. They’re migrants, called by an ancient urge to fly north again after the winter. Red-winged blackbirds. Grosbeaks. Flickers. Water birds.
My people say the birds are child spirits. We recognize their innocent, exuberant joy even though we sometimes forget how to sing ourselves. Birds reconnect us to the song within each of us. That’s why we miss them so much when they leave us and celebrate their return. In the splash of late winter sunshine, they’re gleeful. Standing in the chill air to watch them takes me beyond time, its rush and its burdens. Even the dog is drawn to their energy as she sits at my knee.
As a young man, I’d always taken birds for granted, never paused to observe them or consider that they might have something to teach me. Then, at a traditional winter gathering, I heard a story that changed my way of thinking.
In the Long Ago Time, before the time of the Human Beings, one winter grew especially harsh and deadly. The snows piled higher than they ever had, and Keewatin, the frigid north wind, blew long. The cold was so devastating that the sap in the trees froze, and their limbs swelled and exploded. Everywhere in the forest was the sound of popping trees. It was a haunting sound in the darkness.
A small chickadee who was nearly frozen hopped along on top of the snow until he came to the base of a small tamarack tree. The wind was gusting mightily. As the little chickadee huddled close to the trunk of the tree, he begged the tree to lower its branches to shelter him. At that time, all beings could speak to one another, and the world was filled with their lively chatter.
But the tamarack was young and proud. It revelled in its fine shape and refused to lower its branches. So the little chickadee gathered his strength and hopped on through the snow, clutching his wings about him to stave off the cold. Eventually, he came to an old pine tree and moved close to the trunk. The chickadee asked the same favour of this tree. Seeing his plight, the pine tree dropped its lower branches to shelter the small bird.
Creator watched the drama unfold. She asked the tamarack why it had refused to help the small bird. The tamarack replied that it did not see the need to surrender its beauty to shelter a bird who would likely die anyway. Then Creator asked the pine tree why it had decided to help the freezing chickadee. The pine tree replied that it had felt the bite of many frigid winds and knew how lonely and terrifying that could be.
As a sign of the pine tree’s compassion, Creator allowed the pine to keep its drooped lower branches from then on. Creator allowed the tamarack to keep its magnificent shape, but because of the tree’s vanity and selfishness it would henceforth lose its needles every fall. The tamarack would always face the winter naked and cold, as an indicator of its lack of mercy and compassion.
I was as haughty as the tamarack when I first heard that story. I’d just reconnected to my Native family and my culture, and there was a tough battle going on within me. I worried that all my years of displacement had disqualified me as an Indian, that I lacked the necessary soul to really belong. So I used vanity as a mask, dressing in a flashy Native style— fringed moosehide jackets with elaborate beadwork, turquoise rings, hide vests and moccasins. I ordered shirts sewn in Native designs and grew my hair so that I could braid and tie it in traditional fashion. I did everything I could to hide my terror and loneliness.
That story about the trees and the chickadee got me interested in birds, though. When I started to watch and listen to them, I discovered a calm I had never felt before. I read bird books and got some binoculars, and I visited birds wherever they were, in marshes and forests, meadows and semi-arid deserts. I could sit for hours enthralled by their vitality and cheer. In their songs, I heard celebration. In their behaviour, I saw harmony with their surroundings. Seed eaters, sap suckers, bark borers, fishers, insect divers and birds of prey shared the same sky. Each bird had its own important place in the scheme of things. Most importantly, the birds taught me that it’s not elaborate feathers that make you beautiful. It’s what you do and how you treat your fellow beings.
Scientists believe that birds are more ancient than dinosaurs. Flitting and hopping among the branches, gliding high above, they represent a wisdom gleaned through millennia. Pay attention to this world you’ve been given, they seem to say. Sing. Celebrate. That’s what matters most.